


macaroons and snuff tobacco

by misandere



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: F/F, it's just awkward conversations and sex, this is canon compliant I guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 03:25:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5148515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misandere/pseuds/misandere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3-part series about Cecile and Strangelove dating, hope you like sentimental lesbian processing. Takes place pre-Peace Walker to pre-Ground Zeroes.</p><p>There's a fair amount of sexual content in this. Also sorry for the bad french.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. space

Strangelove has never been down to the lab’s cell block before. There's grime along the walls and floors, no air circulation to counteract the Costa Rican heat, and it all reminds her how bad this decision was. She shouldn’t be involved in this project.

She walks to the right cell; the only occupied one, thank God. The woman is lying on a bench, her hands bound, blindfolded. She looks less terrified than when she had been dragged into Strangelove’s office by the mercenaries, sweaty, still struggling.

Strangelove slides her card, enters, sits on the bench opposite her. "I’m very sorry about all this,” she starts.

“I should hope so,” Cecile responds. Despite everything that's happened this afternoon, now that's she's had the chance to calm down, she's decided not to be compliant. This is whole situation is absurd and she's not going to let it get to her.

“What were you doing out here, anyway?”

“I am not a spy, if that is what you are asking.”

“I don’t believe that you are,” Strangelove sighs. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t make much of a difference. I can’t let you go. I’m just trying to get a handle on things.”

Cecile recognizes this woman’s voice, the one who the armed men reported to, the one who insisted they be less rough. She seems nice enough. “Alright. I traveled to Costa Rica to record some rare bird calls. I am an ornithologist, you see.”

“Oh, really? You’re a fellow woman of science, then?” Strangelove felt guilty about it, but now she was a little happy to have her here. She felt naked without academia.

“ _Oui_. I have been trying to record a resplendent quetzal. They are quite elusive, you know, a lot of their habitat has been lost in recent years.”

Cecile gets somber, then something occurs to her. She grins.

“But I quite enjoyed searching the forest for one. The fresh air, the sun, not having my hands tied behind my back.”

“Sorry about that.” Strangelove stares at the ground. “Um, what’s your name?”

She lays back down as she began. “Cecile Cosima Caminades.” This strikes Strangelove as cool, effortlessly stylish.

“Charmed, Cecile,” she stutters, swallows. “As I said, there’s not much I can do to get you out of this. You’ve, well, stumbled on something top-secret and important, and I can’t safely disclose much more. But,” she adds, nervous and quick, “if there’s anything I can do to make this experience less unpleasant, let me know.”

“Well,” Cecile says, frowning, “this cell is quite filthy, you know? Would it be too much trouble to have it cleaned?”

“Not at all.” Strangelove beckons a guard patrolling the halls.

“Excuse me, where is the janitor?”

The man shrugs. “We don’t really have a janitor for this level, ma’am.”

Strangelove looks around the cell again. The conditions are unacceptable, and she knows she shouldn't get invested but she finds Cecile too charming to put her out of her mind. She groans.

“Just bring me some cleaning supplies, then.”

The man comes back with some cloth, a mop, and a bucket of soapy water. He looks at Strangelove a little oddly after handing them off, of course he does. She rolls her eyes, makes sure he notices, then soaks the mop and starts cleaning.

Cecile shifts onto her side, getting as comfortable as she can with her hands behind her back. She lets herself relax. It's good to have someone on her side.

“Aren’t you going to tell me about yourself, as well?”

“I don’t think you’d like to hear about me,” Strangelove says, eyes fixed on the floor she scrubs. “I’m a rare mixture of outrageous and dull.”

“Come on. It is quite rude to ask someone to introduce herself and not do the same, no?”

“I didn’t ask you about yourself to be sociable. I just wanted to know what was going on.” Cecile rolled over to face the wall, a little frustrated.

“So you just want me to wither away in lonesomeness down here?” Cecile asks, teasingly indignant. “That would be torture.”

“Oh, you know nothing of lonesomeness,” Strangelove says, cracking a smile.

“Alright, now you’ve piqued my interest.”

“Fine, fine, it couldn’t hurt.” Strangelove always worries that talking about herself in detail will scare people off.

“I’m not really comfortable with my birth name. Most people refer to me as Dr. Strangelove.”

Cecile is perceptive enough. “Strangelove? Is that a reference to the _saphique_?” she asks, jest in her voice.

Strangelove breaks a sweat, focuses on mop strokes. “Is that an issue?”

“Of course not!” Cecile tries to sound sympathetic. “I would actualy quite eager to get to know you now, I have never met a _lesbienne_. Although, you know, a lot of my friends are gay men.”

Strangelove lets herself breathe. She's being seen as a novelty, but just not being seen as disgusting is enough right now.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. Anyway, I’m an AI researcher, I develop computers modeled after human thought processes. That’s more or less all there is to me. When I was younger, I was an impassioned person, active and well-liked in scientific and queer circles. I would have eagerly sated your curiosity about my homosexuality, the way you seem to want me to.” That last remark hurts, a little.

“About fifteen years ago, I met a woman who seemed to be made of wisdom and moonlight, if you'll indulge some amateur poetry. We loved each other, and she died.” Strangelove has finished the floors and scrubs the walls. “Since then,” she stops for a moment, “I haven’t been able to make or keep friends, and I completely engrossed myself in scientific work. And so now I’m in a black site in Costa Rica, trying to get the slightest bit closer to her through my research, cleaning a prison cell because someone named Hot Coldman cheaped out on the janitorial staff.”

"Is his name really Hot Coldman?"

Strangelove smiles, surprising herself. "To the best of my knowledge."

She wipes her brow, looks over the room. “Alright,” she says. “It shouldn’t be too revolting to spend the night in here.”

“You missed something,” says Cecile.

“Oh, what's that?”

Cecile gives a wide smirk, baring her teeth. “ _Moi_.”

Strangelove blushes, not really understanding. "Are you making a pass at me?"

"I am."

“Don’t tease me like that. Besides, you're a little awkward at it.”

“I am not teasing you, honestly.” Cecile smiles, nervous. She realizes there's something pleasant about Strangelove’s voice. “I do not know if you are the type who acts so quickly, but this is something I have wanted to try, if you'll indulge me.”

“Well,” says Strangelove, trying to be bold, “you are terribly cute.” She puts trembling hands on Cecile's shoulders.

Cecile smiles, satisfied with the compliment. “Let me see you.” Strangelove pulls off her blindfold.

She looks her over, sharp clothes, nice hair. “You're really  _enchanteur,_ " she says. "I mean it.” Strangelove smiles. It's been a long time since anyone but _Huey_ has said that.

“Let me send the guard away.”

She calls the nearest man on patrol. He walks up with slowly, clearly uncomfortable.

“I’d appreciate it if you and anyone else in the area went on break for the rest of the night. Is that clear?”

He nods and salutes. She takes a seat next to Cecile, puts a hand in her hair. When she hears the elevator depart, she faces her.

“Are you sure you’re alright with this?”

“ _Oui_ , _oui_ , do not make me wait.”

“Apologies.” Strangelove slinks down to Cecile’s feet. She unlaces her hiking boots, throws them aside. She moves up to her waist, unbuttons her pants and slides them down slow, kissing both legs as she goes, hairs tickling her lips. She looks up at Cecile. She's already breathing hard.

She pulls open Cecile’s shirt, one big motion that elicits a moan. Fumbling with the knot, she untied her wrists and slides off the bindings, unhooks her bra and lets it fall into her lap. Strangelove’s face flushes. She traces her belly, slides her hand into Cecile’s panties. She strokes, teasing and testing, then pulled them to her ankles.

Strangelove remembers the remark Cecile opened with, gets her hands soaped up, then started to lather her. Her hands graze her breasts. She remembers that she touched someone else’s breasts since 1961. She stops, a little overwhelmed, and Cecile sits up, pushes her down. She kisses Strangelove, long and deep, leaves her struggling to catch her breath. Strangelove wavers, like a weight's shifted. It's the first time Cecile had gotten someone else’s lipstick on her.

 ****  
  



	2. place

Cecile knocks, holding the lukewarm bottle by the neck. Mother Base cools down, the chill of the sea air diffuses tension. The wheel of the hatch turns, Strangelove’s head pokes out, and she smiles. Cecile can read her face now and when her sunglasses are off it’s so obvious that she’s sad. She steps in, sets down her bag.

“Still living in the dark, cheri?”

Strangelove remembers that she’s supposed to be taking care of herself. She shrugs as she lights a row of candles. “I like the dress.”

Cecile fingers the material self-consciously. Loose, pale-pink, she thinks it’s cute. “Merci, I’m glad to hear it.”

She moves closer to Strangelove, lays her wrists over her shoulders, then presses herself against her. “I wore it for you, you know.”

Strangelove is aware of how cheesy this is, but she’s still overwhelmed by the attention and intimacy. “I’m flattered,” she sputters, and Cecile backs off satisfied.

“I brought you something,” she says, holding out the wine bottle, beaming.

Strangelove glances at the label, curious. “Saint Emilion? So this isn’t just from Commander Miller’s stash?”

“Non, this is a sixty-four bordeaux. Awful lot of trouble getting it, all the way out here.”

Strangelove’s face feels hot. “Sixty-four,” she repeats.

“Yes, one of the best years for French wine in recent memory. You ought to be grateful, you know.”

She shakes her head. “Sorry. Thank you very much.”

Cecile cocks her head to the side. “Something I said bothered you, didn’t it?”

“Not at all,” Strangelove responds. She opens a compartment on the wall. “Let me find a corkscrew.”

This frustration is familiar. Cecile isn’t sure she has the right to pry, but she can’t let this go. She wraps her arms around her from behind, spatial closeness compensating personal distance. “Don’t lie to me, docteur,” she says as Strangelove opens the bottle. “You’re incapable of hiding things.”

Strangelove takes a drink. “Can we sit down?”

“Of course.” She presses her head against her back. “But I’m not letting go of you.”

Cecile perches herself on Strangelove’s bed, pulling her into her lap. Strangelove sets down the bordeaux and starts.

“Do you remember when I told you about that old lover?”

“The one who, well-”

“Died. Nineteen sixty-four was the year it happened.”

“I’m sorry.” Cecile tone gets grave, she loosens her grip. “We could get rid of it, if you want.”

“No, it’s alright. I’m attempting to move on, and I want to learn to handle things like this. It’s what she would have wanted, you know.”

Cecile nods.

Strangelove sighs. “You might not want to stay. I think I’m going to be miserable for the rest of the night.”

“Don’t resign yourself to that,” Cecile replies. Strangelove turns to face her.

“Let me get up for a moment.” Strangelove shifts off her.

Cecile walks to the bag on the floor, rummages through it until her fingers graze lace. This is a wildly inappropriate idea under the circumstances, but Strangelove is a pliable person around women she likes. She holds it up.

“I got you another present,” she says, voice halting. “It’s red and black, your colors.”

“M-my, that’s so considerate of you.” Strangelove’s eyes are wide, she’s more flustered than upset and Cecile feels relief.

“I don’t want to pressure you into doing anything you’re not comfortable with right now, but maybe you’d like to try it on?”

“I’ve never actually worn lingerie before,” she says, getting up to take it. “But I’ll certainly give it a try.”

She turns toward the adjoining bathroom, but Cecile shakes her head.

“You want me to change here?”

“It would be a little ridiculous to do otherwise, at this point. Unless you’re really uncomfortable with it.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Strangelove has no idea how to do a striptease without looking ridiculous, so she undresses utilitarian, pulls on the negligee. She puts her hands on her hips, trying to pose.

Cecile giggles. “How do you feel?”

She shrugs. “Cold? A little awkward? Not in a bad way, though.”

“You look adorable,” Cecile says, gently presses Strangelove against her bed, moves a hand to her thigh. “May I?”

Strangelove’s back tenses up. “I’m not sure. You know I prefer, well, giving to receiving.”

“Sorry, I guess that was a dumb idea.”

“No, not at all,” she assures her, waving her hands. “I would certainly consider experimenting with it, it’s not as if the thought of it has no appeal. I’ve been uncomfortable with it in the past, likely because of the power dynamics-”

“Docteur,” Cecile cuts in, “do you want to do this or not?”

Strangelove faces the mattress. “Yes. Please.”

Cecile puts her hands on Strangelove’s shins, guides them apart. The moment she touches her Strangelove jolts up, feels nostalgic, vulnerable. She groans, quietly. Cecile grinds against Strangelove’s leg, brings her head to her collarbone, kisses it, moves up to her neck.

“Is it alright if I bite?” she asks, and Strangelove nods, breathing hard. She’s gentle at first, but clamps down hard.

“You’re so cute like this,” she says when Strangelove’s close to coming, and all she can do is moan and gasp. “I love how easily I fluster you.”

When Strangelove finishes, she hugs Cecile to her, who kisses her chest as she catches her breath.

“Would you like to go down on me?” Cecile asks when Strangelove’s still. Strangelove raises her head, smiles.

“Of course.”

Strangelove starts fast, Cecile buries her hands in her silver hair, stroking her head. Strangelove looks up at her, and Cecile laughs at the doe-eyes she’s making. When she comes, she lets herself fall back, then crawls next to Strangelove, lays on top of her.

“Was that good?” Strangelove asks.

“Yeah.”

“Thank you, for tonight.”

“My pleasure,” she says, resting her cheek on Strangelove’s belly. She reaches down for the wine bottle, takes a drink, spills a little on her. “Hey, the next time you get like this?”

Strangelove nods.

“You don’t have to isolate yourself. I think you feel responsible to bear it all alone, but when you do that, I just worry. And you know, it worked out tonight, right?”

“Right,” Strangelove replies, and she realizes Cecile’s asleep. Some people sleep before two in the morning. She reaches for her research notes, writes until she’s too tired to think. In the morning, Cecile’s weight is still on her.


End file.
